Wednesday, July 08, 2020


And how is it that you unstitch me so,
with one kiss, my every front unseated?
As glamours break you watch them go,
while I sit here, helplessly defeated.
Your soft smile serving a gentle glow,
asking if your spell might be repeated.


Monday, July 06, 2020


mango by charl landsberg

when you use magic to wage battle,
all thats left of you by nightfall,
is the inedible stone of reason,
and the raw flayed skin of sadness.
all goodness sacrificed,
to distant gods of war.
all I'm good for is planting,
and a hope that i grow.


Sunday, July 05, 2020


Living with the fallout,
is the hardest part of making the right decision.
I'm not happy here;
but I'll be damned rather than go back.
For all my fault and mistakes I am content;
let the carrion birds have the rest.
We will endure no fire that is not our own.
We will endure no scorn that we are not due.

by Charl Landsberg


Wednesday, July 01, 2020


transphobes love demanding access
to trans bodies
playing haruspex with our corpses
telling of our imaged sins
crimes we might commit
if we are allowed to survive

Monday, June 29, 2020


when the person you miss is dead
it's like your heart writing letters to santa claus
you know that nobody is going to get that letter
but your heart has the hope of a toddler
so she writes in broad crayon strokes
on printer paper, in an unmarked envelope
and sent to where those who know better
keep such things



I’m a little bit broken, starlight sparkle when the light catches,
reflecting back in bits and patches, I’m a little bit broken.
I’m internally shifted, contorted, and aberrant,
enough to affect my market value when cis guys come shopping:
if you’re buying crystal clear, shop on, because I tend to shine.
Every piece of me, even the broken shit, is mine.
I’m a little bit broken, over-sugared-coffee-breath depression.
Anxiety struck lightning glass, pain induced angry bitch.
My insides are nebulae. I give birth to stars.
I bleed daily, and where the drops fall scriptures grow like weeds.
I’m a little bit broken, plural brained, blood stained,
bruise maned, fist trained, and queer who gets up anyway,
and ask to know who the fuck you think you might be,
to think you have the right to fix me.


Sunday, June 21, 2020


The owl fell dead from the tree,
nobody noticed.
The moon sunk low into the ocean,
nobody noticed.
The vines gave fruit to rotten meat,
nobody noticed.
The trans girl cried no,
nobody noticed.
Nobody learned.
Nobody listened.
And when the world crumbled around them,
they said,
why didn't you say anything?
History is a circle.
Driven on by dead birds and empty oceans.
Driven on by rotten gardens and transgender tears.
Nobody learns.
Again it happens.
I see it coming.
I have no proof for you.
I have no evidence for the court.
All I have is my screaming stomach.
For the tragedy that comes again, again, again.


Tuesday, June 16, 2020


by Charl Landsberg

Lady Winter is here to complain,
her daughter gone again,
the year spun long left with sons-in-law estranged.
She sits on the cherry branch by my window,
"It wouldn't be fair if I didn't rage so,
but nether if for all the world I changed."
I offer her my cup and she accepts with a grin,
as if all of summer hides below silk-cut skin.
The earth sleeps and the craning depths groan,
as cthonic wedlock robs the queen of her kin.